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Prodigal Exile, The
Category:House Emberfall It Slipped My Mind Lilithia fidgeted with her clothes. Her hurried hands pressed out every crease she could find, and checked every button and clasp. "How do I look? Is everything on straight? Is the circlet balanced? Do I--" "You look fine, Lady Emberfall." Sanguinara tried her best to stay civil. She had patiently waited in the snowy hills of Dragonblight for fifteen minutes while her anxious employer did a last-minute appearance check. Though the undead woman appeared unphased by the cold, her lean blood elf form was steadily chilling to the bone. "I should open the portal now," she said in the most amicable voice she could manage, "before it gets too late there." The moonlight on the snow was quickly outshone by the blue glow of the portal and the lamplight shining from the arcane window. After ten years of separation, Lilithia was faced with a living picture of her home city, Dalaran. Or, rather a picture of a room in what she was to believe was Dalaran--she really could not tell. She leaned forward and studied the portal, not entirely trusting her employee's work. "I have jobs to take care of," Sanguinara said with a small frown as she gazed into the portal, as well. Lilithia smirked. The blood elf's disappointed expression told her everything she needed to know. Through that portal was the grand capitol of magic for the races of Azeroth. Anyone who had ever waggled a finger or waved a wand suffered a natural longing to walk the city's streets when faced with the opportunity. She could feel the unmistakable vigor of magic radiate from the city onto her skin. As Sanguinara forced herself to turn away and mount her hawkstrider, Lilithia took her first steps through the portal. So much reminded her of Silvermoon--just as that place had reminded her of Dalaran. The air was easy to breathe and temperate, and even the smooth stones under her shoes felt warm and inviting. The place felt alive, and though there were fewer enchanted items and magical tricks on display than in Silvermoon, the city was inundated an undeniable energy that coursed through the structures, themselves. Smooth, intricately detailed marble walls surrounded her that no hand could have carved such things. Hammers and chisels had not touched the place--only the pure wills of its craftsmen, shaping the city into their perfect intentions. Mind had conquered matter, there. There was no need for gaudy displays, for the entire city spoke to her of precision and care. Truly, she was home. She could not stop walking, or looking. Every street, every alley of the city contained some delightful finishing touch. She found herself unable to focus, her attentions simultaneously pulled to all details. Safety slowly dawned over her, despite her notice of a lack of guards. As she searched the city, she could find no soldiers sparring, or silent watchmen at every street corner, such as those that littered every habitation of the Horde. In a place like Orgrimmar or the Undercity a similar absence of guards would be considered foolish; in Dalaran, it was a sign of confidence and power. Time passed quickly, and she found herself overwhelmed. She leaned against the wall of a building--even the hard wall felt comforting--and released a long, happy sigh she did not know she had. There were no eyes upon her, and for a moment, that meant nothing. And then, that fact was everything. Residents had acknowledged her, some sneering, as she had made quick tours into shopfronts and taverns, and others gave polite nods or smiles; nevertheless, she did not expect the happiest welcomes, and found no reason to. After all, giving her longer than a short glance would reveal she was not of the living, as her pale flesh and leather straps crossing her face would have suggested, and she was certain someone must have noticed the fel taint on her essence by that point. But she never felt watched, or watched over. Some negative reactions were expected typical by the warlock during these first days of Horde members mingling with the citizens; the Third War and its scars were fresh. She held hope for the future of her regained home and the people there, despite history. The Kirin Tor had spoken--a portion of them, anyway--and she was allowed to return to her home along with other visiting Horde members. She had not seen Dalaran in nearly ten years, and until a few weeks prior, the Violet Citadel had considered her an enemy. Things had changed. The citizens had accepted their previous foes--including herself- -into their walls. That trust affirmed her peace, and her belief that they were prepared to move on. Dalaran was her home, and no matter how much it had changed since she had left, she felt safe, there. Whether she was trusted, or just not considered a threat, made little difference in Lilithia's surface thoughts in that moment on the streetside. She could move as freely there as she wished in the Dalaran of her youth. Having found her way to a lamp-lit balcony on the Violet Citadel, she leaned over the railing and grinned to the city, below. If she had paused to think, she would have found the expression uncharacteristic of herself. There was no hint of malice, any hidden thought, or scheme, behind that grin. Superficiality was unnecessary in the joy of the moment. A snap of her fingers brought the butler to her. After trading a few gold for some champagne, she downed the glass in one tilt. The drink flowed into her lethargic physiology, and she took in the high view as her mind blissfully clouded. Carelessly, she flung the empty glass from the balcony, only to watch it vaporize in midair in a shimmer of light a second later. She turned and returned to the street below, laughing in delight every step of the way. More shops, more sights, and a cheese vendor. Amenities and happiness appeared to come as effortlessly to Dalaran as the magic that created it. Still smiling, she entered another open door to see what business was within. Upon crossing the threshold she immediately stopped, her mind sobered, and her attention focused. A tiny machine darted by her foot, only to make a circle and another pass. She watched the object with curiosity, attempting to ascertain its purpose. "Toy," she managed in Common with her realization. Repeating the word, she noticed that, although she could still speak Common when she grudgingly wished, the word had become alien. When a tiny hand clasped the device, she recognized it--a toy train. Her attention moved up the hand, the arm, and to the creature, itself--a human child, and awake very late. A human child, in a place filled with toys, playing with toys. She was in a toy store. Lilithia tried to make sense of this as her smile faded. For all the power of Dalaran, there were those that chose to do nothing more than make impractical items for these children. As her head canted to one side, she realized that children play with toys. As her jaw slowly slackened, she remembered those of her own. Children played with toys. She had played with toys. After years of walking Azeroth in her forced immortality, she recalled that she, too, had a childhood. How important would those years be to her when eons had passed? What shaped her? What memories from her younger years continued to ripple through her life and actions? She was unnoticed for the first minutes, and so she absorbed the room into memory as she attempted to relate the sights there with her past. The children there would remember that place, and all that transpired there. Events that would shape their lives were connected to the mirthful objects on the shelves. Everything that occurred there would determine what they would become. Their futures were easily made malleable, and intensely influenced by every action around them. If she were to be faced with existing forever, those were the faces of her future, and that place was but one of many classrooms within which they would learn the world. "Toys," she whispered to herself, realizing their power. On the floor with a doll was a little girl--no older than ten--looked up to Lilithia through little golden locks of hair. Their eyes--rather, the girl's little eyes, and Lilithia's big eyeless expression of awe--met. A moment passed between the two of them, and then the little mouth opened in a shrill little scream, and the little girl found a tiny space under a small table, in which she promptly hid and kept little, frightened eyes on the startled Forsaken woman at the door, who stumbled back into the railing outside the shop at the child's reaction. The gnomish shopkeeper, who was no taller than the girl but sported a beard that could have doubled as his coat--shot an accusatory glare to her from across the room. "What did you do?" he demanded. "The girl... she screamed." Her words were halted by so much astonishment in such little time. "I did nothing." "A likely story," the little man snarled. He pointed a stubby finger to her. The children had stopped playing long before, and were now staring at Lilithia. "Something like you should know better than to come into a place like this!" In an average city, on an average day, Lilithia would have shouted back. She would have made the gnome cower behind the counter for his disrespect, and would have had a heated discussion of humanoid dissection and typical temperature tolerances. Perhaps he would have been in ashes, or strewn about the room, guaranteeing that he would forever be close to all of his precious playthings until the end of his days, which would have been shortly after she could tear away no more of his entrails. This was an atypical day, and in an atypical city. The little gnome was of Dalaran, and however much he insulted her, she could not bring herself to harm him. They were kindred children of the Kirin Tor's blessings, and though he did not appear to acknowledge the fact, she thought the idea undeniable there, within the walls of the city, despite his venomous words. Worse, the children were there. She would never have any of her own (her eternal body brought eternal infertility), so the children of her people, like those surrounding her, were the only ones she would ever have. At that moment, they were all horrified of her; perhaps they would have learned to accept her, but the terrified scream of one appeared to traumatize the group. To make a scene there would have furthered the damage. Retort was not even an option for her at that time. She found nothing to say. Her mere appearance had frightened the little girl, and, consequently, all the children there. To them, in that moment, she had become a monster. For all of the places she had been, and people she had met, that was the first feeling of shame for her post-mortem condition she could recall since before awakening in Deathknell and beginning her new unlife. And so, as the children gawked and imagined horrible fantasies of what she did to scare the little girl, Lilithia dispassionately turned and returned to the street. Lilithia's smile was gone, and though she tried to keep a proud poise, she carried a slouch of which only she was aware. Her head hung forward ever so slightly as she replayed the events in the toy store, and how terrible she felt. Years from then, when they were fellow citizens, those children would remember the day that Lilithia Elianas Emberfall terrorized the toy store and, consequently, the frightful days during which the Forsaken walked the streets. In one innocent move she had influenced them for life--and in the worst way she could imagine. Worse yet, for the first time since arriving in the city, she felt a pair of eyes on her back. Glancing behind her, an armored man wearing a Dalaran armband watched her with bright blue pupils. The high elf was the first guard she had seen in the city the entire night. Had he been watching her all night, and she just then noticed? She hastened her pace up the street and turned a corner. Lilithia wrung her hands and mulled over the man as she stood waiting to see if he followed. Why would he follow her now? The scene at the toy store had been a disturbance, but there were no screams of a crime committed behind her, and she had left peacefully. The reason was in the back of her mind, she knew, but she could not recall, no matter how hard she tried through her panic. Out of the edge of her sight she saw the guard, and noticed his hand on the hilt of the blade on his hip. She darted into the nearest building, and hoped he did not notice her. Dummies lined the wall next to her, each sporting a proud tabard, some Dalaran, others from throughout the world. A man, whose undead condition was much more apparent than hers, was leaning on a staff while standing at a counter; on the other side, an older woman was trying her best to not appear perturbed. "What about the Cannywinds? I am certain Paulnith will recall me." Despite his lack of a lower jaw, his Common was clear. The woman did not appear to enjoy when he spoke. "Just a minute, let me get the 'P' directory. We may...." Her voice trailed off as she looked up to Lilithia. "Another. All right. Please give me a minute to finish with this," she turned to the jawless Forsaken. His upper lip smiled. She avoided the sight and returned her eyes to Lilithia, only to find no eyes to speak to. That did not make her appear any more at ease. "I'm going through the city census records. What family are you looking up?" "I did not wish to trouble you," Lilithia replied as she turned to walk away. "Not a trouble for me!" said the woman, taking Lilithia's comment as a challenge. "I can recognize most of you people--your families, at least. You're a... Hearthwright? Orpenson?" Lilithia shook her head as she continued to the door. "Emberfall or Tessel, I'll bet. Have to be! Did you know old Quillius?" Lilithia did not respond. She remembered her Uncle Quillius--he was a talented researcher, and carried the magic that ran in her bloodline. Her last thought at the moment, though, was toward her history. She needed a place to hide. When almost to the door, the woman snapped her fingers and grinned. "You are an Emberfall! You look just like your mother, Lindly!" Lilithia ran outside. She caught a glimpse the familiar pair of bright blues that watched her from a few houses down. Inside the building she had just left, she heard the old woman shouting out the open door, still naming names. Lilithia recognized several as her kin, and felt uncomfortable with the names. "I know who you are! You are little Lilithia! You used to play in the..." and her voice trailed and silenced. Lilithia stopped, and her normally sluggish heart was pounding. She remembered why she disliked hearing about her family, and why the guard would be following her. She remembered why she would try to forget, and the fog of happiness that had filled her homecoming and clouded her memories faded, entirely. Lindly was dead, as was her father, Coranasus. The last images she had of her parents were of them falling to the claws of her hands. Of her older brother, Harmiscus, torn asunder. And then of the Emberfall house in flames behind her as Lilithia stole into the night. The voice of the old woman was much louder, now. A scream. "It's her! It's her! It must be her!" Lilithia drew a peculiar stare from a mage passerby. She turned her face from him, left the street, and sprinted around a corner. The small edge of a building outcrop provided enough protection to hide her trembling form. Her circlet, which quietly hovered above her head, was taken from its perch and roughly shoved into her shoulder pack. A dark hood, which she had planned on disposing of and had forgotten, was discovered in her panic and pulled over her head. She wrapped a set of heavy robes, which were normally only kept for exploration and bad weather, around her body and over her clothes. Mimicking the characteristic slouch of so many of her race, she made her way into a nearby alley. A large entry into the stone wall was there, and what was its metal gate lay to the side. From the outside she smelled a familiar, dank smell, and noticed dim torchlight within. Behind her, she heard heavy footsteps approaching. Instinctively, she entered.